


2000 Miles (Very Far Through The Snow)

by adrenalin211



Category: 24
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrenalin211/pseuds/adrenalin211
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snowstorm threatens holiday travel plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2000 Miles (Very Far Through The Snow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leigh57](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leigh57/gifts).



> This ended up getting a bit out of hand! I decided on an AU in which Renee recovers. The title comes from the song _2000 Miles_ , by The Pretenders. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and I hope you have a wonderful holiday season. 
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Your Secret Yuletide Santa

She can identify the smell in the air, certain as the crisp earthiness of fall leaves or the dirt-like aroma of spring rain. She knows it because she grew up with the seasons, their scents linked inseparably to her most prominent memories.

When Renee stares at the nebulous white of the sky, feels the chill in her bones, and smells the impending precipitation still enclosed (for now) in the clouds, she doesn't need to catch the first flake on her forehead, or read a weather report, or wait until she sees road crews throwing sand on the streets to know what's coming. 

Normally it would be perfect. Two days before Christmas and an epic snowstorm on its way, trapped warm and safe inside a beautiful hotel room with a giant Christmas tree and walls made of windows that overlook the decorative lights in Central Park.

But Jack isn't with her. 

He's is in L.A., probably going crazy with Christmas preparations. In the picture she imagines he has sugar cookies in the oven, scotch tape and wrapping paper stuck to his jeans, and is cleaning off the colorful frosting stuck to Teri's fingers, maybe mopping up the trail of flour that she'll leave in her path.

And their whole condo smells like a blissful unison of the roaring fire, cookies in ovens, and that cinnamon candle Jack bought. Not like winter snowstorms and loneliness.

The downside to having her own built-in weather radar is that she can't trick herself into having any degree of hope that this onslaught of powdery white will wait. 

That her flight won't be canceled. 

That she'll be able to make it home in time for Christmas.

++++++++++

They discussed it at length, this consulting case in New York City.

He didn't want to agree to it, but it wasn't his call. She'd leveled with him, explained why she had to go. And he tried (unsuccessfully) not to think about Russian mobs and vodka and nuclear rods and hit men and bullets shattering window panes, because this case has nothing to do with any of those things.

Rationally.

She agreed to accept the opportunity only on several conditions that they decided together. 

-No contact with the suspect(s) outside of headquarters. 

-No field work. At all.

-She'd call every night.

-She'd be home for the holidays.

-She'd wear a bullet proof vest to and from her hotel.

(That last one caused reluctance on her part, his name leaving her lips in protest. _Jack._ But he'd nearly vomited at the thought of her vulnerability, and she must have sensed this impending reaction, because then, low and soothing, she said, _"Okay. Vest. I'll wear a vest."_ ) 

So. 

He's decked the halls twelve times over, wreaths and tinsel and candy cane distraction. He's brought Teri to see Santa at the mall, made elf shaped Christmas cookies and drank half a dozen cups of hot chocolate with his sugar-overloaded granddaughter. Had more than his share of peppermint tea. Made a grocery list and braved the store. Bought Renee a ring.

 _The_ ring.

But all he can think of at night, panicked and sweaty and never at ease with the empty space to his left: 

It's been ten days since he's seen her face. 

Twenty three minutes since he's heard her voice.

Twelve and a half hours until he can meet her at the airport.

And that she promised him that she'd close her blinds.

( _She's safe,_ he tells himself, over and over, until he's too tired to care that he can't believe the words without the sound of her breath, warmth of her body, beat of her wrists in his hands, their fingers interlocked beneath cozy flannel. He replays the word _Tomorrow_ in his mind. 

_Tomorrow_.)

++++++++++

The thing about airlines is sometimes they're profoundly idiotic. Had the damn plane just _left_ when they said it was going to, instead of waiting around deciding if the weather would get worse, they'd have been past the danger zone within thirty minutes, and right now she'd be six hours away from Jack's outstretched arms, arms she's been wanting wrapped around her since the second she boarded her plane back home. 

Instead she's stuck in LaGuardia, irritatingly warm in her puffy black parka. 

Renee's thought about this reunion every goddamn day. She bought him green satin lingerie at Saks Fifth Avenue, a nice watch, and she's been planning on surprising him with the news that she's giving up this consulting shit. Once she finishes this job, no more trips across the country. No more weeks in which she doesn't get to see him. 

This would be the first and last. 

She needs some fucking chocolate and a bottle of wine, not necessarily in that order. In fact, in the reverse order. 

Unfortunately what she's doing requires perfect sobriety, because it's far more dangerous than ten minutes in potentially turbulent skies.

She's driving to Newark, or Philly, or DC, or as far south as she has to until she finds an airline that 1) has a seat remaining on a flight to L.A. and 2) hasn't canceled flights in anticipation of this fucking Nor'easter. Jennie was kind enough to lend her the CRV she never uses, so. Renee might as well go for it. 

She just wants to cry, or for Jack to materialize. 

It's not safe; she knows this. The roads are slick with slush and she can hardly see anything through her frosty windshield, but after calling home to say (heavy throat and whispered apologies), "Jack, my flight was canceled", and after hearing that quiet beat of his disappointed silence before he concealed his voice with a facade of smooth receipt and an "I love you", she can't just _accept_ this outcome. 

So, although she has to keep ignoring the hunger pains, and although she's sick of Bing Crosby on the radio when Jack isn't there to be classically traditional with her, and although she's not going more than ten miles per hour, her palms sweaty every time her windows fog and her car tries to veer in a direction she didn't command, she's _going_ to make it home for the Christmas Jack planned with his family, and she's _going_ to power through this blizzard. The anticipation of the look on his face when she surprises him (the way his eyes gleam and hint at the smile before it shows) is enough to fuel her to fucking Tallahassee. 

++++++++++

The news settles in like the stain Teri's cranberry juice left in the carpet yesterday; it seeps slowly, taking a few second absorb, getting darker as time stretches out.

Planning and over-planning Christmas was something that distracted him from Renee's absence. He's been conducting if/then analyses the whole week, just to be prepared for whatever came his way. He's since created an answer to all of the following:

If....the turkey dries out... then _________. 

If... Teri gets sick... then ________. 

If.... Stephen is called into an emergency surgery... then ________. 

If... they run out of wine... then ___________. 

None of these imagined scenarios began with the premise: If Renee's flight is canceled... 

He hadn't visited the possibility, unwilling to entertain the thought.

Jack tries to imagine the day without her, to let the inevitable sink in like the damn juice, but the problem there is that for necessary diversion he's done nothing _but_ imagine this day, down to each individual detail. When to pre-heat the oven, when to serve breakfast, when to show Teri what Santa brought. 

Renee's been the constant, the only person by his side in every frame of every anticipated scene. 

He replays her voice in his head, whispered sadness creeping through the crackle in her words. "I love you, too. I'm sorry. I'll call you later." 

And instead of letting any of it absorb, he packs a few of his belongings into a small black bag, googles the nearest travel agency, walks into the place (dull jingle bells announcing his entrance), and says "I need to get to New York by tomorrow. Which flights are getting canceled and what are my options?"

++++++++++

The sky doesn't let up until she hits Baltimore. She finds a long-term parking space in BWI, checks the flight statuses, and gets in the appropriate line.

She doesn't smile until the ticket is in her hand and she's read the Baltimore forecast on her phone. 

_She's going home._

Renee's trying to figure out the logistics of when she lands. She could take a rental car from LAX, surprise Jack at home. 

She could take a taxi.

She could call him from the airport to pick her up. 

But all the "surprise" path options point to an unnecessarily prolonged period of time between now and the moment she gets to see him. That and, it's not like she naturally considers herself a huge contributor to his happiness, but all past evidence would suggest that she _is_ a considerable factor, and that he's going through hell right now (if her own reaction is any kind of measure) at the thought of being apart on Christmas. 

So she should probably put an end to that, disabuse him of this lonely notion.

She imagines his face, getting to see the relief and joy on it, but fuck it. She'll hear it in his voice and it will be almost as good. 

Plus, this path has immediate gratification.

"Hey," he says, after only one ring. It sounds noisy in the background. 

"I was going to surprise you," she starts. "But I'm bored out of my mind and my flight doesn't leave for seven fucking hours." 

"Your flight?" She can hear him clearing his throat. 

She takes a second to bring herself up to speed, to absorb the craziness of what she just did without ever stopping to think. "I don't know, Jack. I just got in a car and drove south until the skies were clear. I somehow wound up at BWI, booking a flight on the Redeye back to LA. So... keep me company while I wait?" 

There's a beat on the other end before she hears the warming sound of Jack's laughter. 

"Are you _laughing_? Like you wouldn't do--" 

" _-Renee,_ " he cuts her off. "I love you." She hangs onto the words, shutting her eyes to the surrounding cacophony. "Are they sold out of seats?"

"They only had a few left when I got mine." It's so _loud_ wherever he is. "Why?" 

"Book me one?" 

Pause. 

"What?"

"Just get in line and I'll explain."

"Okay." She furrows her brow, even though she knows he can't see her. "Okay," she says, when she's made her way to the desk, wheeling her luggage and parka like the cliché discombobulated Christmas mess of a scatter-brained woman unprepared for the holidays. 

She imagines the crazy image of herself displayed on the cover of some Christmas movie. 

"Are you in line?"

"Yeah." 

"I was going to surprise _you_ ," he says, his tone light and calming. She wishes it were tangible, something to reach out and grasp in her palm. "I'm headed your way, actually. When you said there were no flights I decided to come to you. BWI's the closest thing I could get to Manhattan that wasn't shut down. I figured I'd rent something with four wheel drive, then GPS the quickest route to your hotel."

"You're on a plane now? How..."

"No. There were no direct flights left. I'm in Chicago," he clarifies. "It was only an hour layover. I'm boarding in five minutes." 

"You're in Chicago?" This whole thing is a bit too intricate for her to process at a normal speed. Her brain has been shut off to anything but road signs, snow, highways plows, and the hard core weather gears of Jennie's SUV. 

"I am." She can picture the look on his face, the joy of coincidental convenience, the way the right side of his mouth goes up higher than the left when he's sharing her excitement about something. "Renee?"

"That's..." she pauses, because she's not going to cry in the middle of the airport, no way. "That's the closest you've been to me in almost two weeks." 

"I know," he whispers. She can picture the crescented shape of his mouth through the sound of his words that come out. "Believe me. I know." There's a garbled intercom in the background when he says, "That's the boarding call. I have to go. See you in a few hours?" 

Renee pulls it together and steps up to the counter. "Hang on a sec," she tells Jack, placing her phone in her pocket.

"I need to reserve a seat to L.A. please. Whatever's left," she says to the woman.

The woman, Debbie, according to her nametag, takes Renee's credit card. "Your lucky day," she says. "Last opening."

"You still there?" she says, picking up her phone. 

"Yeah." 

"You just got the last ticket." 

"We're going home?" His words are soft and come through a laugh.

"We're going home." 

When Renee is done spewing off Jack's info and reserving a boarding pass, she sits at one of the tables in the food court, kidding herself with the notion that she can concentrate on the crossword in front of her. Her eyes, instead, are glued to the flight board, tracking the ETA of his plane against the second hand on her watch. 

++++++++++

Of all the possible outcomes that had drifted through his mind as he flew to Chicago, going _home_ together wasn't one of them. He'd ruled out the blissful, anticipated Christmas that he'd been planning for weeks.

But he'd been adapting, best he could.

He imagined knocking on her hotel door, calling out "cleaning service" in a disguised voice, and waiting (heart beating fast in his chest) until she saw his face through the peep hole, swung the door open, and jumped into his arms, luggage be damned.

He imagined Christmas morning and a walk through a snowy Central Park, her gloved hand in his and the foggy contrast of warm breaths colliding with the brittle air. 

He imagined reveling in the time with her, their second Christmas together, trying not to think about the plans that fell through, or the turkey dinner no one will enjoy, or how he's missing the gleaming expression on Teri's round face when she opens her American Girl doll.

Molly.

Or Kirsten? 

No, Molly. They'd decided on the Molly.

Sometimes, Jack's propensity to believe that he can't have it all supersedes all evidence pointing to the contrary. On days like today, this mentality works as a shield against the force of disappointment, and as a catalyst to action. 

All week he'd been doubting his luck, doubting that all the stars would align in his favor. 

He _still_ doubts. He never again wants to _expect_ anything. Every moment he finds himself smiling is not something he'll make the mistake of taking for granted. 

For instance: 

He doesn't expect that Renee will be waiting for him at the closest possible location, abandoning her supreme distaste for PDAs in order to greet him with a long hug and some fake plastic mistletoe held above his head. 

(Which she is.) 

He doesn't expect that she'll be so overjoyed to come home that she won't be able to stop talking about spending the day with his family and giving him the gift she apparently bought him.

(Which she is.) 

He doesn't expect that she'll be suppressing her appetite, waiting until his arrival to eat a mediocre dinner in an airport lounge, words furiously slipping through her lips. "I was so excited to see you I swear I forgot about food!" Her expression soft, elated. "Let's grab a burger and milkshake to celebrate it almost being Christmas Eve. We can get fancy with these mini wines I bought us." 

(Which she does.) 

As he sits next to her in the food-court booth, watching her mop up his leftover ketchup with her curly fries, the most prominent word on his mind is _grateful_ , because that's what he feels, every goddamn minute.

++++++++++

The plane ride's not awful or anything, except she can't sit next to Jack, and that kind of sucks. Not that she has the right to complain about anything, given the way the day's shaped up. 

That they're on their way to L.A. at all is by the grace of some miracle. 

And together they shared seven of those miniature Shutter Home plastic wine bottles; they're stupidly drunk and chatty and chardonnayed. 

Totally a word.

But the snoring man she's sitting next to has unconsciously stolen the arm rest, and she can't move her body too much without causing him to startle awake in a way that reminds her of a bear about to grumpily wake up from hibernation. Not that this is something she's ever witnessed, but you know.

Shit, she's drunk.

Jack is one row back across the aisle. They pass each other notes like teenagers.

"Watch out for drool," Jack writes.

She chuckles, trying not to look at the man again, because it's hard to do so without laughing like an asshole. She turns to her crossword, stuck on 32 down, because a whole lot of years separate her from her high school English class. Jack will know this one. 

"What's Hamlet's tragic flaw?" she writes.

"Being an idiot," he scribbles. She can see him smiling to himself across the aisle. "He was all thought no action. What's my tragic flaw?" 

"The way you wear your socks halfway up your calves. And still look sexy." 

"I think that's _**your**_ tragic flaw." 

"It _is_ pretty inconvenient." 

"I'm wearing them that way right now." He draws a winking smiley face next to his message.

"Shut up!" 

(This is how they pass the time.)

++++++++++

They've spent most of the afternoon napping away some of the jet-lag and are now snuggled on the couch, wrapped in the oversized afghan Kim gave them as a housewarming gift when the sale went through.

Renee's back is against his chest and he's planting an occasional kiss on the exposed skin of her neck. 

The tree (the real spruce that Teri insisted they drive 40 miles to get) is lit up with multi-colored lights, one of which is this dark bluish purple that must be new this year. 

Every now and then his lips linger at the pulse point in her neck, waiting, and she lets this go on without comment, as long as he needs.

She understands. 

He could just sit like this forever. 

"Teri's gonna want to be here at 6 a.m." he whispers. He's trying to just talk to her and not kiss her, not run his hand under her shirt and across her stomach, but her neck smells like spices and her skin is so _soft_ and she's here, right in his lap, not complaining.

"I know," she hums, tilting her neck to give him better access." 

"Kim and Stephen will stall her," he mumbles between kisses. "But you know they'll get here before 8:30." 

"I know," she says, squirming in his lap, leaning back further into him.

"We should get some more sleep," Jack concludes, but they both know that's not what he means.

"I don't want to go to sleep." 

"Okay." He's probably grinning like an idiot; one of the many things he loves about her is the way she never hesitates to say what she wants. 

"I'll go to bed though," she whispers, tilting her head back so he can kiss her lips. 

"I won't argue with that," he mumbles, leaning into her. 

His hand glides up her spine, about to unhook her bra, when she gets up all of a sudden."I bought you something. I want to put it on for you," she says.

He swallows. "Okay," he says, adjusting on the couch. "I bought you something, too. That I want you to put on." He clears his throat.

"Really?"

(He can feel his heart start to accelerate, hopes she's too distracted to notice.) 

"You first." 

"Okay." She plants a kiss on his lips before she detangles herself from underneath the blanket. "I'll be back." Another kiss, this one longer. "Fast." 

Jack beams, and as he watches her disappear into the bedroom, he fumbles through his pocket, assuring his question is within his reach. 

++++++++++

He tells her that he wants to touch and see as much of her as possible. That he wants her to be on top.

"You can touch me," she says. "Touch me." 

He removes his own clothes, his eyes never leaving her body except for the half a second it takes him to lift his shirt over his head. As he's distracted by the green satin of her lingerie, thumb flickering between the holes in the fabric, tracing his fingers up and down every inch of her that's exposed, she watches him become more and more eager until his boxer briefs look uncomfortable.

"My turn yet?" she asks, eying him.

"Not yet. I won't be able to --" 

"-Jack," she interrupts. "I plan on doing this again tonight. Just so you know." She's leveling with him, because _god_ how much does he not need to be worried about _that_ right now? "We can make it last the second time." 

Jack swallows and the sound, the degree to which he is responding to her, has her all but there. 

"Okay." 

"So my turn?" 

"Yeah." His voice is low and throaty. Irresistible. "Your turn." He's closing his eyes as she reaches her hand underneath the elastic waistband of his underwear. He's lifting his hips so she can slide them down.

She's pressed against him (on top of him) just as requested. _Jesus_ the sound of his breathing is like porn for women. 

He's hardly moving or breathing when she lowers herself on top of him.

"I'm not touching enough of you," he says. "Please can you..." Jack trails off, biting his lip as she lays her chest against his, moving her hips until he's clutching her waist, grasping onto skin, and telling her, "Keep doing that." 

He just barely can make it long enough for her, which is maybe the hottest thing she's experienced, and as it's happening she can't think of anything beyond the pressure of his body, the softness of his skin, the way he closes his eyes and parts his mouth as her movements steady. She reminds herself to breathe.

"I missed you," he's saying, before he's able to speak without panting. Jack's not letting go. "I need you here." 

His hands run up her arms, fast, where her goosebumps cause the hair on her arm to stand. She thinks of static electricity, of explosions of dancing chemicals.

"I'll stay here." 

Jack looks up at her. "Really?" She rolls away, settling on top of his arm, her face turned towards him on the pillow. 

"I don't plan on leaving again." She leans in, dragging her lips against his until his arms wrap around her and drag her close.

And she keeps kissing him until she remembers his grin from earlier, nervous and sexy and adorable all at once.

"So," she says when she breaks away. Jack lingers, coming in for more, shorter kisses before letting her break away. "You have something else you want me to wear?" 

"Depends," he says, smiling. "Do you want one of your presents early?" 

"Well if _you_ want me to wear it, wouldn't that make it an early present for you?"

Jack smiles, his eyes moving over her face, his hand stroking her cheek as he leans closer. "Well. I might want you to wear it more than you will." 

"What?" she asks, and before she gets too confused, he's reaching for the pants he discarded on the floor, rummaging through the pocket with a childlike excitement on his face.

(He's wrong, it turns out. She wants to wear it _a lot_.)

++++++++++

Christmas day is a blur of cinnamon scented excitement, stories of hooves drumming on the roof last night and sooty boot prints Santa left in the fireplace.

He remembers it in a series of clips that move too quickly, and wishes he could recreate the day in stop-motion animation, capturing the stills to remember every second. 

Like Teri on his lap, trying to patiently wait her turn to open her presents. _"Soon,"_ she kept whispering to herself. _"One more person. Then me."_

Like Renee's fingers interlocked with his, her ring reflecting the multicolored tree lights as the reality sunk in like an old prayer. She's going to be his _wife_.

Like Kim and Stephen in his kitchen, pouring Riesling and putting the finishing touches on their side dishes.

That night, when his daughter is gone and Renee's putting away her gifts, Jack stares at the fire, entranced by the orange flame and the smell of seasoned oak.

He thinks about all of the people who hear the blare of a Christmas radio or the predictable chorus of church bells, only to suffer a haunting incongruence when those sounds collide with the feelings within.

Jack is all too familiar.

And he knows how Christmas bells always ring on, oblivious to your personal conflict. 

And how people are merry around you, despite anything you might try to do to escape. 

It wasn't long ago that this was Jack and he couldn't envision a future that contained words like "happy".

So, just because he's been surrounded by love and flooded with warmth this year, he's not about to forget those people, and the internal suffering Christmas has a way of accentuating.

And he's not about to forget the decorative cloth hanging above Teri's bed, the one he sees whenever he seizes the opportunity to tuck her in. 

Yawning sheep jump through the sky, consecutive numbers embroidered on their bellies. 

_Count your blessings_ , it reads, starlight gleaming in the background.


End file.
